Face of a Killer

by Robin Burcell

  But not if she didn’t get the hell out of there. She turned the ignition key and released the starter switch as the engine rumbled to life. Switching off the blowers, she listened to the slow, steady roar that filled the cavern, vibrated the boat, and she let it idle. Watched the water. If she didn’t time it right, she’d be shark bait and the boat would be tinder crashing on the rocks. Definitely in the timing. She waited a few seconds, tried to get the feel of the water, the timing of the waves. The boat bobbed gently, up, down as each wave came in. And just when she thought she had the timing, a sleeper crashed, filling the channel with deadly white water. But she knew time wasn’t on her side. Her best chance was at the crash of the white water. Start forward as it came up, hope the water was receding as she sped through. She tucked the gun into her waist, held her hand on the throttle, pushed it forward the moment the next wave crashed.

  White water sprayed her face; wind whipped her hair. Before she could breathe, she was through, open water in front of her, the rocks receding behind her. She glanced back and up. Saw the men at the top change their stance when they saw her. And then Robert bracing himself as Jose jumped out, fired at the men. She pushed the throttle. The boat screamed forward, bounced across the surf, jarring her. She steered to the north, zigzagged, hoping for some cover from the rocks, before moving out into the open water, where a bullet could ricochet across the surface like a skipping stone, then bounce up and take her out. It was rare, but she wasn’t about to take a chance. Only when she was far enough out did she dare a second look back, and she thought she saw the black Mercedes speeding north on the highway. Just south, where she thought Robert and Jose were holed up, it looked as if the cliff top was filled with flashing red lights of patrol cars.

  Perhaps Robert was okay, she thought, turning back, watching the water. The police had come. She only hoped this evidence he’d given her, whatever it was, was enough to cover her ass, because she was bound to be in trouble by the time she got back, especially if Scotty happened to mention her midnight foray to the airport via Arturo’s motorcycle and someone found out about her unauthorized trip south of the border. Not that anyone had to find out. If she was lucky, she’d slip into port in San Diego, casually leave the boat behind, catch a cab to the field office, then a plane to the city, with no one the wiser, her good-girl reputation intact. Of course she had to get north of the border first, and now that the threat of being shot at was gone, she pulled back on the throttle, and the boat settled into a much smoother cruising speed. If she ignored everything that had happened to her, it would almost be enjoyable in the bright sun, passing the sailboats that scudded across the surface. To her right was a small town, she guessed Puerto Nuevo, the place to go for lobster, if she recalled correctly. Several minutes beyond that she could see the brightly colored hotels that lined Rosarito Beach. About fifteen minutes from there until Tijuana del Playa. Every now and then, she glanced behind her and to the shore, searching for a boat that seemed to be coming after her. So far nothing but pleasure boats and sailing vessels, no one paying her the slightest heed, though a few waved as she zipped past.

  She couldn’t wait to get to shore, out of the bright sun. Her head was beginning to pound as the shores of Tijuana grew closer, and just beyond that, San Ysidro and San Diego. All she could think about was ibuprofen, a dark room, and quiet. No roar of the engine, no thudding in her head…

  Something made her look up and back toward shore, and she realized it wasn’t her pulse thumping, but the beating of a helicopter. Tijuana was right there, and she thought perhaps a tourist attraction. Hoped it was a tourist attraction. But Robert had warned her. And the chopper wasn’t flying like some gentle tourist ride, hoping to sight a few dolphins. It was heading straight for her.

  She pushed on the throttle, felt the boat bounce across the surface. They could shoot her out here, drop down, retrieve the bag, then leave, no one the wiser until her body washed up on some beach.

  If it washed up.

  Sydney eyed the shore, wondered if she should make a break for Tijuana, hope the crowds would deter them, or keep heading north. But that was the direction the copter was coming from. And while this boat might be the Ferrari of the sea, in comparison to the chopper, she might as well be driving a Volkswagen van. Time to open it up. The boat shot forward, and she gripped the steering wheel feeling as out of control as a being caught on a runaway horse as each bump sent her flying. The copter grew closer, and she almost imagined she could hear the beating of the rotors over the roar of the wind and engines.

  She thought of Arturo’s phone, wished she’d had the sense to put the battery back in it. Who the hell knew if it worked this far south of the border?

  A radio. She glanced over, saw a marine radio, the microphone hanging. Channel 16. Her father, her uncle, and then Jake had pounded it into her head. Emergency channel 16. She flicked it on, then gripped the steering wheel again. One glance back, and she saw the chopper closing in.

  Shit. Let it work, she thought, picking up the mike and keying it. “Mayday, mayday, mayday,” she called, then released the button, hearing nothing but static. What was it Jake used to tell her? If you didn’t hear them, it didn’t mean they couldn’t hear you. They could call someone else for help.

  She had no idea what the name of the boat was, and so she used the brand, along with her FBI radio call sign. “This is FBI Gladiator thirty-six, mayday. I’m northbound off Tijuana. Being chased. Helicopter. Armed and dangerous.”

  Again, nothing but static. And then what she thought was the faint report of a weapon.

  Crap. The helicopter could go at least hundred miles an hour faster than she could. She thought about returning fire, but figured she couldn’t drive and shoot at the same time. She glanced back, saw a man leaning out. Robert thought they were some sort of black ops.

  If so, what chance did she have?

  But the copter didn’t look like some military craft, so maybe she had a chance after all, because one thing these boats could do was move across water. And a moving target was damned hard to hit. She started a zigzag pattern, kept it up, wondered if the small bursts of white water were rounds hitting.

  A group of sailboats glided ahead, their skippers oblivious to the threat. With no choice, she had to zip between them. The helicopter suddenly backed off. Apparently taking out a civilian wasn’t acceptable; someone would have to answer. Just as Robert said, she was the target. This pouch she carried guaranteed that.

  There were more sailboats, but she wasn’t about to take the chance she was wrong. And as she passed them, the helicopter veered closer, banked in. And her radio squawked to life. “FBI Gladiator thirty-six. This is the coast guard. Identify your position.”

  She didn’t have time to pick up the radio. Not if she wanted to stay alive. She continued her pattern, trying to outmaneuver the chopper. Its shadow crossed her hull as it banked, coming in from the front. It hovered, its beaters churning the water around her. A man leaned out.

  She reached for her gun, figuring this was it.

  “FBI Gladiator thirty-six,” came a booming loudspeaker. “This is the coast guard. We have you in sight.”

  Just beyond the copter, she saw the welcome sight of a gray coast guard cutter, speeding south toward her. And then a hail of gunfire, as the man in the chopper opened on her.

  27

  Somehow Sydney made it through, unlike Robert’s boat, which had more holes in it than she cared to count. Lucky for her the cutter made decent time and the helicopter pulled up and out of there, before the coast guard trained its two. 50 caliber machine guns at it.

  From there it took her twenty minutes to convince them she needed to get to the San Diego field office at warp speed, when what they wanted to do was question her for hours about what she was doing in Mexican waters driving a world-class speedboat, being chased by a helicopter bearing men with guns.

  Sydney, having no clue as to what Robert really did for a living these days, claimed she was merely i
n Mexico on a pleasure trip, when she was set upon by smugglers, who grabbed her in Puerto Nuevo, and she managed to escape on a boat that just happened to have the keys inside.

  When they wouldn’t let her off their cutter, she had them make a quick call to the last person she wanted to talk to, Scotty. After a brief explanation, with as many holes in it as the boat she’d left behind, Scotty told her he’d take care of FACE OF A KILLER 211 it, his last words being for her to get on the first plane back to the city.

  Five minutes later, the commander of the boat received a call, listened to whatever was being told to him, then said two words, “Yes, sir.” He looked at Sydney, said, “We’ll be transporting you to the San Diego field office.”

  What was it that Vince Pettigrew had said about dealing with someone very high up the food chain? No doubt who Scotty was dealing with, because that was one quick turnaround, and all interrogations about her ordeal had instantly stopped, further proof that Scotty was investigating something she could only imagine the depths of.

  When she reached the Bureau office, she was able to fend off any questions with a simple “Had a boating accident. Coast guard rescued me.” It worked since everyone there had assumed she was merely there for a bit of sightseeing, and her scraped hands, and the tear in the leg of her jeans, somewhat stiff from the dried seawater, seemed to verify her story. At least the seawater had washed off most of the dust. Her leather coat was marred from the rocky cliff, but had probably saved her a number of cuts and scrapes, and if nothing else, it added character.

  She called Carillo the moment she was at the airport, gave him a quick rundown, and he said, “Well, that explains why the shit’s hitting the fan here. And I thought it was bad yesterday, after Scotty told them about the you-know-what on you that I’m not supposed to know about.”

  “So he did tell Dixon?”

  “I’m guessing so, since Dixon’s been holed up with him in the ASAC’s office all morning.”

  “Any word on what they plan on doing?”

  “Like find you a nice safe room where you can’t get into trouble? No idea. But they called me in, and asked if I knew where you took off to the other night.”

  “What’d you tell them?”

  “What do you think? To ask Scotty. He’s the one who took you home, maybe he knew.”

  “And Scotty said what?”

  “What could he say? The big nothing, since he’s the one who lost you.”

  “And Dixon didn’t mention my flight to Texas?”

  “He was too busy popping Tums. Lettie mentioned that you’d, uh, called in sick this morning. I’m sure he probably thought something’s up by now, but frankly, I’ve been keeping myself scarce and busy. Easy enough to do since Operation Barfly’s starting up tonight.”

  “Barfly?”

  “Doc Schermer came up with the name. Our multijurisdictional stakeout of the area bars, looking for Jane Doe’s killer. We got a tentative ID on her and a tip that she was last seen at one of our bars with a guy who, at least from the description given, matches your sketch of the suspect that attacked Tara Brown. I’ve got you assigned to barhop with me, but who knows how that’ll go over. Especially after today.”

  “Any word on Wheeler’s photos yet?”

  “Sorry. Not yet. But you know the moment we hear something…”

  And all she could think was Johnnie Wheeler had three days from tomorrow.

  Her phone beeped with a low battery warning. “Gonna have to go, before I lose you.”

  “By the way, whose phone are you using, if you left yours behind?”

  “My neighbor’s. The one who lent me his bike.”

  “Nice neighbor.”

  “Yeah. I should probably get him a Christmas present.”

  “Before you start shopping, you might want to get your ass back here, see if you still have a job.”

  “I’m boarding the plane as we speak.”

  Sydney took a taxi home, stopped there long enough to shower, throw on some clean jeans, on the off chance that they might let her go out, then grabbed the same leather coat, as well as Arturo’s backpack, not having time to search out something better, because according to Lettie, her bosses were on the warpath, and Sydney was the star victim.

  The office buzzed with activity when she walked in, agents who normally would’ve been winding down, getting ready to leave for the day, were now just coming in, checking weapons, cuffs, and radios for the upcoming task force operation. Lettie cornered Sydney the moment she saw her. “Dixon wants you in his office right away.”

  “I’ll be right there.” She passed Carillo, who gave her a once-over at the sight of her sunburned face and scraped hands, then grinned.

  “This the new Baja look?”

  “You know me. Cutting-edge style.”

  “Never seen you dressed casual before.” He leaned back in his chair, propped his feet up on the desk. “Want a bit of advice before you go in? Off the record, since Scotty informed me I know nothing.”

  “Go for it.”

  “Deny, deny, deny.”

  “Gee, aren’t you the helpful one.”

  “I’m here for you.” As she started toward her desk, he called out, “You look hot in black leather, but the whole reflective backpack? Gotta go.”

  She walked back toward him, dumped her backpack on his desk, then leaned down so only he could hear. “Which reminds me. Inside is a bank pouch. That’s what they were shooting at me for, and maybe what Scotty and his crew are searching for.”

  He eyed it with new interest. “That right?”

  “Don’t ask me what the hell it is, but maybe you’ll have better luck. Just don’t go waving it around unless you’re wearing body armor.”

  She left it with him, walked to Dixon’s office, ignoring the stares of her coworkers, who all seemed to know that something was up. She tried to look calmer than she felt, then knocked on the door.

  Dixon gave a terse “Come in.”

  She opened it, stepped in, saw him glance up at his Tahiti brochure next to his retirement calendar, as he popped a couple of Tums in his mouth, no doubt wishing for something stronger.

  The ASAC had his back to her, talking, or rather listening to someone on the phone, and Scotty stood to one side, his arms crossed, a vein pulsing in his temple as he pinned his gaze on her. She tried not to look at him. “You wanted to see me?” she asked, then immediately regretted it. Of course he wanted to see her. Everyone in here knew it, and apparently everyone in the outer office knew it as well.

  Dixon held up one finger, indicating she needed to wait until the ASAC was off the phone. She’d be lucky if he didn’t have her transferred to some safe house in Alaska, then ship her fifty boxes of data entry, just to keep her busy while they finished up their investigation.

  Finally the ASAC hung up the phone. He stood maybe two inches taller than Sydney, salt and pepper hair, blue eyes, and pale skin. His wide mouth was set in a stern line as he turned toward her, clearly upset. “Special Agent Fitzpatrick,” he said, eyeing her clothes before meeting her gaze. “You are, of course, acquainted with Special Agent Scott Ryan.”

  As acquainted as sleeping with the guy for six months could make her, she supposed. “Yes, sir.”

  “I have just spent the past several hours with Special Agent Ryan, discussing an ongoing investigation into one or more persons on the staff of Senator Gnoble, whom I believe you’re also acquainted with. ..”

  She waited, knew what was coming next, not sure what she could say that wouldn’t get her in more trouble than she was already in.

  “Damn it!” He slammed his fist on Dixon’s desk, and she jumped slightly. Even Dixon and Scotty moved back an inch as he looked at her. “No one, and I mean no one threatens one of my agents and gets away with it.”

  She stared in incomprehension. “Sir?”

  “I don’t know how to tell you this. Someone in the senator’s office has made a threat to your life.”

  She glanced at Scotty, h
is face impassive, before looking back at the ASAC, and saying, “A threat?”

  “It may be worse. Special Agent Ryan, please inform her what you told me yesterday morning. And what you are asking of her.”

  Scotty eyed her, nodded toward the chair, said, “Perhaps you should sit.”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “We have reason to believe that someone in the senator’s office has hired someone to… kill you.”

  “ Kill me?” No one answered. She walked over to the window, looked out to the street below, doing her best to act surprised, shocked, realizing this was how Scotty intended to cover himself, inform her and let her bosses know-and not a word about Mexico. Finally she turned, faced them. “Do you know who?”

  “We think so. We don’t know if he is the only one involved, or if

  …” Scotty took a breath, held her gaze, as though he weren’t sure how she’d take this. Not bad, she thought. “Or if there is anyone else higher up who is in on this.”

  “You mean the senator?”

  “Yes.”

  “I find that hard to believe. He’s a family friend.”

  “We know that.”